


Healing Touch

by Morgana



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-01
Updated: 2010-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-05 17:10:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgana/pseuds/Morgana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A gift from Harmony gives Angel what he really needs</p>
            </blockquote>





	Healing Touch

The day spa had been Harmony's idea- a way to destress and pamper himself, she said. Angel hadn't had the heart to turn her gift down, not when she looked so proud of herself for thinking of a way to help, but he really hadn't planned to use it. Of course, he'd forgotten that the person who bought him the certificate was the same person who controlled his schedule and phone calls...

Angel shifted in his chair and cursed softly when the movement caused his bathrobe to gape open, sending a very uncomfortable draft washing up over his cock. He looked longingly at the door that his clothes had been carried out of and promised himself again that he'd make Harmony pay for this as soon as he got back to the office. She hadn't told him about the group of smiling, sadistic grandmothers that ran this place, or the various tortures they seemed to feel were necessary to 'rejuvenate his pores', whatever that meant. And she sure as hell hadn't mentioned anything about them stripping him naked and leaving him trapped without clothes when she'd shown him the brochure!

He should've realized it when he was led down into the changing room and handed a bathrobe, but he'd been trying to play along, so he'd complied without arguing. That was before he'd met Magda, though. She was apparently his personal demon in this hell he was in, because she kept coming into rooms and shepherding him into other chambers, moving him from one torture to the next, never heeding his assurances that really, he was perfectly relaxed now, all of it done with a serene smile and calm pat on his arm that said more plainly than words that she didn't believe a word he said. He'd been plastered with mud, whipped with a fistful of eucalyptus branches, stretched out over heated rocks while his skin was scrubbed with sand, and forced to lie still while two tiny women chattered away in Filipino and pressed down on his back in all sorts of new and painful ways. There wasn't a muscle in his body that didn't ache, and he was just about ready to vamp out and make a run for it, clothes or no clothes.

When he heard the door open, Angel jumped to his feet, yanking his bathrobe closed. He hadn't been quick enough last time, and he really hadn't liked the way Magda had looked at him, like she was assessing him and making mental notes about his size and possible prowess. That must've been what Cordy meant when she used to talk about guys treating her like a piece of meat, and if they'd had anything even remotely resembling the gleam in Magda's eyes, Angel didn't blame her for getting 'creeped out', as she'd always said. Apparently Magda had already seen what she wanted, though, because she smiled at him and took hold of his sleeve, tugging on the terrycloth until he followed her out into the hallway and down to a luxurious marble-tiled suite.

“Shoes off,” she instructed him, waiting until he complied before moving behind him and taking hold of the collar of his bathrobe. “Robe too, please.” Angel folded his arms and planted his feet, ready to take his stand, when Magda clucked her tongue and muttered something in Russian, then suddenly grabbed the belt and yanked. His knot was apparently no match for her, because it gave way after two hard tugs. Before he could figure out whether to make a grab for the belt or cling to the robe, terrycloth slid off his arms and he was completely naked- again.

Magda gave one shoulder a not-so-gentle poke. “Come with me.” With no real choice but to obey, Angel plotted the thousand ways he was going to make Harmony's life hell over the next century or so as he followed Magda over to a large sunken pool. He stepped down into it, and while the warm water didn't exactly make up for the humiliation of being physically stripped by a Ukranian grandmother, it went some way to easing the worst of it. Sinking down onto the low stone bench, he tilted his head back against the edge, deciding that if the rest of the spa day could be spent in here, he might not hate it quite so much.

Once he was in the pool, Magda hung his robe up on the door and began to lay some things out on a low table by a bench. Angel watched lazily as she dimmed the lights and lit some candles that soon filled the room with the faint scent of cedar and leather. It shouldn't have been calming, but he found himself wanting to purr with satisfaction at the aroma, especially when she turned the stereo on and the lilting harp and flute music of his long-abandoned homeland drifted out. Magda pressed a cup of heated blood in his hand and waited until he'd finished before she knelt down beside the pool and reclaimed the heavy mug.

Hands slid into his hair and pushed him down, then pulled him up before he could react. The slurping sound of a bottle was the only warning he had before fingers combed through his wet hair, working through the strands until the heady scent of coconut took over his senses. Nails raked lightly over his scalp, drawing an unintentional shudder from him that was answered with the kneading press of fingers. Angel tilted his head back when a hand slid under his chin to hold him still as streams of warm water cascaded over his hair and down his back.

He lost track of how many times the water was poured over him, too caught up in the forgotten rhythm of the bath to notice when the cup was laid aside and a voice told him to kneel up. He obeyed without thinking, only faltering for a moment with the first touch. But it was just like he remembered- a calm, impersonal touch that had no sex in it, only caring, and he moved as he was directed, lifting his arms and standing quietly while she washed him. He dimly recalled his mother doing this, first for him and then for Kathy, firelight shimmering on wet skin as they submitted to her ministrations, and for half a second, he almost expected to see her gentle smile when he was turned around. But it was brown eyes he saw instead of green, although Magda seemed to understand, because she patted his chest briefly before she rose and picked up a towel from the stack nearby.

“Guess that means I'd better get out,” Angel muttered, trudging slowly up the steps, reluctant to leave the water's warm embrace behind. Magda wrapped him in one towel and used another to dry his chest, shoulders, and hair off, occasionally murmuring something to herself in Russian. When she was finished, she picked up something from the table, and Angel started as pressure slid over his eyes.

“Hey!” But Magda just tied the blindfold in the back of his head and gave first one and then the other of his hands a sharp smack as he reached up to untie it. “Dammit, get this thing off of me!”

“Good for eyes,” she replied shortly, taking hold of his arm with a grip that felt way too strong for a short woman like her. “Revive the skin, make it less puffy so you look younger.”

Angel tried to pull free, but she held tight. “But I don't want- younger? Wait, I look old now?” The thought was like a slap in the face, and he forgot to argue when she pushed him down on his stomach onto a bench.

“You wait here,” Magda told him, the words by now so familiar he should've seen them coming. “Leave mask on.”

He wanted to stick his tongue out at her, but waited until he heard the door open and close before actually doing it. The childish gesture eased some of his frustration, and he was about to pull the mask off, when he wondered if maybe his eyes really were puffy. Grumbling under his breath, he folded his arms under his cheek and waited for whatever fresh hell was next.

The faint click of the door closing jerked him out of his light doze, and he raised his head. “Magda?” There was no answer, and he frowned, sure that she wouldn't have left him alone if she noticed he was asleep. “Is there anyone there?”

He lay his head back down, just about to go back to sleep when something warm and wet slid down his spine. It was too slick to be water, and Angel was too busy trying to figure out what it was to protest when the hands first touched him. They moved over his back, spreading the liquid out, and when they began to knead the muscles at the base of his neck, he decided he didn't care. Skillful fingers worked the knots of tension that he hadn't even realized were there out, moving out along his shoulders, removing all the stress of work, friends, prophecies, newly resurrected ghosts, and old heartbreaks.

Angel was about to lay his head back down when hands pushed lightly at his shoulder. “Turn over?” he asked, puzzled as to why his masseur hadn't just given him the instruction. But there was no answer, just another push, so he decided to give it a try. As he settled on his back, he realized why- whoever it was had loosened his towel, and it now lay draped over his groin instead of wrapped around him. “Pretty smooth,” he muttered, then forgot all about it as more oil was poured over his chest and the hands set about working the muscles there.

From his chest up to his shoulders, then down along each arm until he doubted he'd have the strength to fight Xander Harris, Angel lay quietly as the unseen hands drifted over his skin, stroking and kneading, easing years of tension out of his body. He wasn't quite sure when his towel disappeared, but the hands on his thighs felt too good to protest- besides, they were professionals, right? Naked men were probably just part of the job description, although he felt reasonably confident that most of them didn't look like him. Of course, Spike would've probably pointed out that most men weren't as bulky as him, with a few comments about him having a fat ass thrown in.

Another push moved him over to his back and he muttered, “Not fat,” as he settled back down. The hands stroked over his back, smoothing more oil into his skin, and he tried to concentrate on them, but he couldn't seem to stop hearing Spike's voice in his head. Why did he have to do that, anyway? It wasn't like Angel wasn't well aware of how gorgeous his childe was- he'd spent more than his fair share of time remembering nights with Spike sprawled out on his bed to ever think that- but why couldn't Spike admit that he wasn't so bad looking in return? Would it have killed him to say _something_ nice, even if it was just to refrain from calling him fat for one single day?

Thumbs skated down the length of his spine, dipping briefly into the cleft between his cheeks, and Angel bit his lip as he felt himself harden. He shifted, trying to get comfortable, but he must've been obvious, because he was suddenly tugged up onto all fours. One hand reached down to move his cock so it was up against his stomach, the touch somehow managing to be clinical and erotic all at once, and then he was pushed back down. Telling himself that this probably happened all the time, Angel tried to forget about the hand that was the first besides his own to touch him in years, and hoped there'd be time after the massage to take care of it before Magda got back.

Fingers moved down his thighs, and he parted them slightly at the silent urging, letting his mind drift back to Spike and his refusal to make any kind of peace between them. It was partially his own fault, too- no matter how often he promised himself that he wasn't going to yell or hit Spike, he ended up taking the bait every single time. One sarcastic comment led to another, and then before he knew it, they were at each other's throat. Angel didn't want to fight with his childe, not when he was all that was left of his family. He'd had hopes that maybe with Spike there he wouldn't be so alone, that with another souled vampire, he could find some kind of comraderie, but it seemed he was damned to spend the rest of his existence forever wanting what he could never have, while Spike danced merrily through life with friends everywhere he turned.

The masseur had moved down his calves and started on his feet, and Angel groaned as strong fingers dug into the soles of his feet. They pressed, rolled, and flexed, and he felt his cock throb briefly in response as they hit a surprisingly sensitive spot. All too soon, though, the hands were stroking back up along his legs, probably making a last pass before he had to get up and be tortured some more. Assuming his legs worked, that was, because right now he didn't think he could stand up, let alone walk down another long hallway or run away from Magda.

He was wondering how successful an escape attempt would be when one oiled finger slid smoothly up inside him, the easy entry drawing a startled gasp from his lips. “Uh... I don't know what, um, kind of massage you think this is,” he stammered, “but I- I really didn't ask for- ohhhhh God.”

The finger stroked his prostate again, then eased back out, drawing nearly completely free before it returned, gliding along on a sea of oil that he would almost swear he could feel being smoothed out along every inch of his passage. Was this one of those 'happy ending' massages they mentioned on Law &amp; Order? The finger twisted slowly, and a second wormed inside, stretching him in a way he'd only experienced once before, and Angel decided he really didn't care if it was. Not if it meant he might get anything even close to the kind of pleasure he'd only known once before.

He moaned as the fingers worked slowly in and out of him, wriggling a little to indicate that he wanted more and get some friction on his aching dick, but almost as soon as he moved, a sharp smack on one cheek let him know that he was supposed to lie still. The stinging blow made him even harder, but he stilled and a steady stroke over his prostate was his reward. As the need for some form of movement started to grow inside him, Angel turned his head, looking blindly towards where he hoped his tormentor was. “Please...” he said softly. “Please... I'm ready now.”

There was no response, though, no change in the fingers that continued to stroke slowly inside him, gliding back and forth in an easy movement that teased him with the pleasure they built and the need for more, for something harder and larger and rougher... He'd only allowed it the one night, and now he was remembering why he'd never done it again. There was too much power here, too much sensation for him to hold back, and he couldn't risk his position as head of the family, couldn't show how much he'd really enjoyed it or how often he thought about it, and what those thoughts always did to him. He tried shifting again, then gasped when another swift blow descended, leaving his other cheek smarting as well.

Of all the tortures he'd endured today, this was quickly proving to be the worst. He needed to move, needed some kind of touch on his cock before he went mad, but most of all, he needed more than just fingers. He wanted a hard dick sliding inside, drilling him while harsh grunts and low moans mingled with his own, but instead he could only lay still while those fingers twisted and thrust, rubbing over every inch of skin until he was half-crazed with need. Tossing his head, as though he could somehow dislodge that mask that kept him from seeing the person who was fingering him into insanity, he began to pant as an unusual sense of tingling pleasure began to spread throughout his whole body.

The fingers started rubbing his prostate repeatedly, barely moving inside him aside from the repeated small strokes that were undoing him with every motion. He could feel his body drawing tight, the need to move almost unbearable, and a sudden twist made him cry out, gutteral words torn from somewhere deep inside. “God, please! Please, just fuck me!”

His only answer was a sudden hard stroke that sent electricity singing through his body. Angel screamed as his world went white behind the mask, unable to move as a bliss he hadn't realized was possible held him in an iron-clad grip. Nothing had been like this before- not his first tumble with Mary Moore in her father's hayloft, not the hours he'd spent in Darla's bed glutting himself on every depravity he could think of, not the countless times he'd held William or Dru down and fucked them until they screamed, not the night he'd given himself over to his childe or the sweet lovemaking that stole his soul.. nothing. His trapped cock pulsed against the table, and he dimly realized he was coming, silken liquid pouring out of him in a steady stream, but it seemed almost unimportant at the moment, a faint second to the intense orgasm that lit his entire body up like a Christmas tree.

The fingers that had stroked him and kept his climax going for what seemed like an impossible length of time were gone when he came back to some semblance of reality. His head spun as he reached one hand up, weakly pushing the mask off, but when he turned around to look, he was alone in the room. “Oh, God,” he panted. “Who- what was that?”

Nobody answered, of course, and he found himself grateful that whoever it was had left. Angel had never lost control like that before, never had such overwhelming need drive him to begging, and he didn't think he could face the person that had done that to him. But he couldn't stop himself from wondering- if just the touch had been like that, what would it have been like to have them fuck him? He shuddered, his cock twitching and releasing another small spurt of come.

Before he could even think about trying to clean up, the door swung open again, and Magda walked in. Had she been the one who'd touched him like that? She didn't smell like either sex or oil, though, and he was sure those knowing fingers had belonged to a man. Angel allowed her to help him up, still too dazed from his powerful climax to think about the semen that streaked his belly and thighs. He followed her to the large shower, then stood quietly as she washed him down and scrubbed him clean, removing all physical traces of his special massage.

Once he was clean and dressed, he headed for the exit, already sure of two things: Harmony was getting one helluva bonus for this whole spa idea... and Angel was getting a standing massage appointment for Wednesday afternoons.


End file.
